


Smudged lines and blurred finger prints

by galaxylove



Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Oneshot, little abstract i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 23:38:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13492221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxylove/pseuds/galaxylove
Summary: If Sana has ruined the line on her graph, she has positively decimated the paint on her canvas.





	Smudged lines and blurred finger prints

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at like 3am just because i couldnt get the idea of messy, beautiful sana out my head  
> not the worst way to try to go to sleep, i suppose

   Everything in her life had always been a straightforward case of yes - or no?

  
   Everything she could remember, from the way her mother demanded she finish her homework after dinner, to the practiced roll of Hana’s eyes whenever she asked to borrow her CD’s.

  
   There were no ‘maybe’s’, no morally ambiguous shades of grey to merge the canvas of black and white in her mind. No messy splotches of inconsistent thoughts or fickle decisions - just do, or don’t.

  
   Win, or lose.

  
   Friend, or not.

  
   Her life was linear, a steadfast, sturdy line on a blank canvas that stretched up, and up, and up. Sometimes down, sometimes up, but never crooked.

  
   One or the other.

 

   Until.

  
   She finds herself looking into eyes a little bit like home, which is _strange_ because she has a home. Home is with mother, and father, and Hana who still won’t let her borrow her favourite CD’s. Home is a place - it is where she grew up inside four sturdy walls in a neighbourhood lined with similar structures.

  
   But then these eyes are glistening as they listen to her every word in rapt attention, half-lidded with the promise of sleep as the girl opposite her fights to stay awake in the early hours of the morning. Momo keeps talking, earns soft giggles and delighted hums in response and she has never wanted home to be a sound so badly.

  
   It’s early, too early she thinks, and she lies down to sleep on Sana’s shoulder. She is wide awake, however, looking up at the ceiling and trying to figure out how she can build a home in someone else without foundations or brick.

  
   She had never been one for metaphors, for the abstract comparison of two separate entities or the imposition of an emotion on an unfeeling object. Things were things, and people were people, and a smile was just a smile until she smiled at her and Momo thought of home.

  
   (She should have realised it then, really.)

  
   Sana wasn’t linear. She was a scribble, a messy array of mismatched lines that criss-crossed and intersected on the page with Momo’s own.

  
   It was chaotic, nothing organised or meticulous about placement or structure, or even the force of which the line had been applied with. It was thick and bold in some places, a standout black mark on the paper but in others it was thin - translucent, as though the weight of the hand guiding the pen was feather light, non-existent.

  
   It was Sana.

  
   Unapologetically so; and Momo begins to see the end of her line, where it curves down to meet the erratic lineage of Sana’s for just a moment, and Momo grins.

  
   She begins to look past this world of up and down, wonders absently how it would be like to ride the wave for a little while.

  
   If Sana has ruined the line on her graph, she has positively decimated the paint on her canvas.

  
   Black, and white.

  
   And messy streaks of colour in between.

  
   Her mother always told her there would be times in her life when things happened in shades of grey. That right or wrong wasn’t necessarily a true concept, and she might find herself dipping her paintbrush into tones of grey to finish her painting.

  
   What she didn’t tell her was that another paintbrush would intercede with her own, dragging thick, messy lines of vibrant colours against a backdrop of black and white. Stains of red, and pink, and yellow appear like magic, decorating the canvas like an assorted string of fairy lights stretched across the sheet. The pots of black and white are swapped out and suddenly Momo’s paintbrush is dipped in a vibrant, brilliant blue, dragging the paint-covered tip to connect the dots and form a wonky line.

  
   It’s messy. The colours bleed into each other, warping into mixes of purple and green and something in between that she’s not entirely sure how to describe, but she doesn’t care.

  
   Sometimes there will be colours on your canvas that you don’t know how to explain, and that’s alright because you don’t have to.

  
   She didn’t have to explain anything when a thumb darts out to swipe a streak of pink along her jaw, pulling away with a mischievous laugh and throwing her paintbrush so that it clatters noisily against the floor instead of nestled carefully inside an empty pot. Momo grins again, follows the sound of home and hears her own paintbrush touch the floor from over her shoulder.

  
She isn’t sure what to call this, whatever this is. The line of friendship blurred long ago, deft fingers smearing prints inside a realm of something more for as long as she could remember. She doesn’t like the unknown, abhors the promiscuous uncertainty that stems from not being able to give something a name.

  
   That might be it, she thinks. The reason why her stomach churns when heavy lidded eyes blink open and Momo is looking into galaxies and constellations, or why the words get stuck in her throat when Sana’s hand rests a little too high on her thigh to be ‘just friends’.

  
   She’s not oblivious. She knows when someone is attracted to her; recognises the achingly open honestly set in the lines embedded in Sana’s cheeks, see’s the bleeding sense of yearning hidden somewhere behind a distant constellation in her eyes.

  
   Making a decision was easy - Yes, or no?

  
   So why did she find the syllables on the tip of her tongue melting away the second she opened her mouth to speak, and why did her heart somersault in her ribcage in an olympic worthy routine when she even considered the idea of confronting this?

  
   She isn’t sure, lets Sana interlace her fingers with her own and tries not to think about how easily they slid in between the gaps. Sana’s head thunks gently on her shoulder, she feels a familiar body press against the side of her own and shifts herself to accommodate the other girl. She hears a contented sigh, files it in her head under ‘Track 73: Love’ and plays it on a loop until the next track comes on to play when Sana snores softly into her shoulder.

  
   She pauses, presses rewind and settles herself deeper into the sofa so Sana could lie more comfortably against her in her sleep.

  
   She didn’t like the unknown, but she knows.

  
She’s always known.

**Author's Note:**

> @tiffatologist, bully me into writing im getting lazy  
> also im in love w/ sana, what’s up with that lol


End file.
